by Paul Doherty
Enrico watched me unblinkingly. I breathed deeply to control my panic.
'Now the cardinal went on to say that when Lord Francesco arrived at the English court he would give King Henry a precious jewel. No Albrizzi had ever seen that jewel before; it was the one taken from your father.' I shook my head, ‘I don't know what further proof the good cardinal gave you, but you were half-convinced. The Albrizzis had certainly profited from your father's death. They had taken you into their house and, as your guardians, had access to your dead father's wealth. Of course, they had also arranged the marriage between you and their daughter Beatrice – a beautiful young woman with the morals of an alley cat.' Enrico smirked. 'How can you say that?'
'Oh, for God's sake!' I replied. 'You played the role of the doting husband well, but you were not blind to the lovelorn glances between Lady Beatrice, God rest her, and the soldier Giovanni!'
He leaned back, flexing his fingers – the only sign of the rage seething within him. 'Do continue,' he said softly.
'Well, the rest you know better than I do,' I told him, stating the obvious. 'The powerful Albrizzis travelled to the English court as envoys from Florence. The exchange of gifts was made. Lord Francesco produced the emerald for our good King Henry. The Albrizzi women protest at a precious stone they'd never seen before being given away. So now you have your proof. Already seething at being under Lord Francesco's control and being cuckolded by the faithless Beatrice, you decided to act. Lord Francesco's death was so easy. You went to Cheapside with him, remember?' 'Of course.'
'Your wife is looking at English cloth. Lord Francesco walks on. You pretend to be busy in a goldsmith's. When the goldsmith tells you to look outside, you do so – and slip into the mouth of that alleyway and, from its narrow darkness, kill the Lord Francesco.'
'But how?' Enrico spread his hands, Inglese, you move so fast. This story about the cardinal and the jewel?'
'Oh, don't lie!' I snarled, it's in your face. What are you saying, Enrico? That you'd allow your father's assassin to walk away laughing? That you'd allow him to kill your father and seize his wealth and his son?'
My words stung Enrico. His hand went under the table. My blood chilled. He had been in the refectory before I arrived, and arranged the wine. Where was the crossbow he had used to kill Roderigo? Enrico straightened up.
'Let us assume,' he said, digging at the table top with his finger, 'that the Lord Cardinal produced evidence – a letter written to him by my father many years ago expressing his fears about the Albrizzis and their ambitions. Let us assume that the Lord Cardinal had a list of the jewels and precious stones my father was carrying when he was killed and that one of these matched Albrizzi's gift to your fat king. Let us assume that the Lord Cardinal produced proof that when Lord Francesco Albrizzi claimed he was elsewhere, he actually was in hiding on the outskirts of Rome. And let us assume that I saw such proof. How it would chill my heart and spark a burning passion for vengeance!' Enrico sat up, placing his elbows on the arm-rest of the chair. His mood had abruptly changed. 'But assuming is one thing, proof is another. Lord Francesco was shot by a handgun.'
'Nonsense!' I replied. 'You know that and so do I. There was no gun. That was simply a red herring – a device used to confirm that, although you were near Albrizzi when he was slaughtered, you could not have killed him. You could not possibly have been carrying an arquebus. No powder stains could be found on you. And how could poor short-sighted Enrico have fired the fatal shot?'
I rose and collected the sling from the centre of the table, pulling back the thick leather cord.
'But, of course, no gun was used, was it? A small musket ball was placed in this and, from the shadows of that alleyway, you shot it, clear and true.' I pulled back the leather thong to let it go. ‘I am not skilled in these things. But a sling may be more accurate than a gun, and a slingshot may have as devastating an effect as a ball from a gun. Isn't that how David killed Goliath? And don't the shepherd boys in Tuscany drive away wolves, even kill them, with their slings? And weren't you, Master Enrico, for a while, protected by shepherds?'
Enrico laughed softly. 'But the report that was heard when Francesco died? And what of Preneste? And poor Matteo?'
I fished in my wallet and brought out the fire-cracker that Benjamin had given me.
'Florentines love fire-crackers,' I said. 'We saw some children using them in a taverna garden.'
I leaned over, pushed the fuse of the fire-cracker into the. candle flame and dropped it to the floor. For a few seconds it spluttered, then it exploded with a bang that echoed through the refectory.
'You used one of these,' I said, 'in that narrow alleyway off Cheapside. Lord Francesco is walking slowly along the stalls. He looks back over his shoulder to where his daughter is stopping. He calls to you. You light the fire-cracker, and it explodes. Lord Francesco looks up and you loose your sling-shot. On board ship it was even easier. The fire-cracker explodes, poor Matteo, near the rails, is knocked into the sea. In the garden of the Villa Albrizzi all eyes are on Preneste and his silly mummery. God knows whether he would have named you, but you could take no chances.'
I played with my cup. 'The garden was dark, everyone was watching Preneste. You would take the fire-cracker, perhaps light it from one of the torches, then throw it. To place a shot in your sling would have taken no more than a few seconds. Against the torchlight, Preneste was an excellent target. The timing would be right. The fire-cracker splutters very quietly whilst you load and take aim, and explodes, leaving little trace, when you fire.'
'Do you know, Shallot,' the wicked bastard purred, 'we all thought you were stupid, with your gauche ways and funny eyes.' He chewed the corner of his lip. 'But you're not, are you? You would make a good Florentine with your sharp brain and keen nose for mischief.' He sighed. 'But not a good lawyer. What proof do you have?'
'Oh, we have some,' I replied. 'We have the motive -revenge against the Albrizzis. We have your undoubted skill with the sling. We have the fact that you are the only survivor.'
He shrugged. 'I was fortunate. All the servants saw me leave the villa. I came back unexpectedly and had to kill Giovanni the assassin.'
'But will your master believe that?' I taunted. 'His Eminence the Cardinal Giulio de Medici, will he support you?'
Do you know, it was the only time I saw a flicker of worry cross that evil young man's face.
'Why the cardinal?' he said hoarsely. But the tone of his voice betrayed him.
'Because it was he who told you how your father died. It was he who arranged the journey to England. It was he who told you about the emerald and, of course, about Matteo and Preneste.' I tapped the table top. 'Those two were the personal retainers of Lord Francesco, and perhaps astute enough to discover the truth.' I sipped from the goblet. 'You undoubtedly saw Matteo try and speak to us on board ship, so he had to be killed. Preneste posed other dangers. He was murdered and then his chamber burnt. We thought it was because of certain paltry papers, but in fact you just wanted to make sure he hadn't committed any of his suspicions to paper.'
Enrico clapped his hands softly. 'You are dangerous,' he said. 'I never counted on fat Henry sending two special agents to root out the murder. I didn't mean to kill you in England,' he continued casually. 'You are right, Master Shallot. I am most skilled with the sling. If I wished, I could have killed you, but I just wanted to frighten you. But frightening you is rather difficult. You proved that against the arrogant bastard Alessandro!'
'When you should have kept your mouth shut,' I interrupted quietly. 'Because you noticed a certain stroke in that duel my master began to wonder if your eyesight was as poor as you claimed.'
Enrico grinned, dipped into a small pocket of his jerkin " and brought out his eye-glasses.
'Nothing but simple glass.' He held them up. 'But they do give you a studious air.' 'Why?' I asked. 'Why what, Inglese?' 'Why the murders now?'
'When you are hunted, Inglese, and you feel the net drawing in, what can you do
? What did Daunbey plan for me? A dramatic confrontation with the Master of the Eight present? God knows what proof you might have produced and what would have happened to me then? Arrest, imprisonment, execution! Or, if not that, disgrace or exile? I had to do it!' Enrico's eyes widened. 'You are not Florentine, Shallot. You don't understand the blood feud. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, a life for a life!' His face grew hard and my heart sank as I saw his hands going under the table again. 'They killed my father, they killed my uncle. They took me into their house and used my wealth. They married me to that bitch on heat!' The skin on his face grew tight, his whole body seemed to quiver with rage. 'Lord, how they must have laughed at me behind their hands!' Enrico wiped the froth from his lips.
'I warned them.' He chuckled strangely. ‘I sent the owl, the harbinger of doom.' He smiled down at me. 'That succeeded brilliantly. I thought it would be found dead in the garden, but to fly and drop dead in here.' His face became grave. 'I took it as a sign, a sign of God's approval.'
'What happens if you are wrong?' I asked desperately, trying to gain time. 'What do you mean?'
'What if the Albrizzis did not murder your father? What if your father was murdered by the Medici? They took the emerald then sowed these ideas so you would become their agent in the destruction of the Albrizzis. Have you been to the Albrizzi Palace? A painting of Cardinal Giulio as a young man hangs on the wall. It shows him wearing the emerald that Lord Francesco gave to King Henry. The Medici killed your father. They suborned Preneste, who must have supplied the details about your father's fatal journey to Rome. Why else would the Cardinal Giulio promise Preneste he would take care of him? And did you know,' I added, for good measure, 'that the mercenary Giovanni was a Medici spy?'
Enrico blinked. 'What evidence do you have?' He cocked his head to one side. 'What proof can you show? How would the Medici gain from the death of my father? Did they profit like the Albrizzi, setting themselves up as my guardians? No, no.' He put his hand back on to the table and drummed his fingers. 'The Albrizzis were guilty, and have paid for their sins. Vengeance has been satisfied and you, Master Shallot, have two choices. Either you are with me or I'll kill you and your master and blame it on Giovanni.'
'Perhaps.' I pushed my chair back. 'Perhaps the Albrizzis did have to die. But why Borelli the artist? What was so special about him?' Enrico looked puzzled and shook his head.
'Artist? Borelli? Why should I kill an artist? He is not an Albrizzi.' 'Nor was Maria!' I shouted.
'Oh, come, Inglese. That pathetic little dwarf woman!' His lips curled.
I picked up the wine cup and hurled it at him, even as he brought up the crossbow, loaded and ready. He pulled the lever, releasing the cruel barbed quarrel. But I was swift. I threw myself sideways. The quarrel hit the chair I'd been sitting in. I sprang to my feet, drawing sword and dagger, and ran towards him. Enrico was waiting for me. I lunged, but he fended off my blow with his dagger. I stepped back. He drew his sword, flexing his arms as I backed down the refectory.
'You wouldn't let me live!' I said softly. 'You'd kill me as you have the rest!'
'I thought you said Maria was alive?' he replied. 'You shouldn't tell Enrico lies!'
He cut the air with his sword. I took another step backwards. Enrico shuffled his feet. 'You should never lie!'
Of course, the man was insane. He'd have killed anyone he met that night, or anyone who had anything to do with the Albrizzis, anyone who might suspect his guilt. I was terrified. I am a good swordsman, proficient with the thrusts and the parries. But Enrico reminded me of my Portuguese duelling master – he moved with the same deliberation and assurance and held his sword and dagger in the same way, lightly, in the palms of his hands. He kept moving me back, establishing a clear killing ground, free of any obstacle.
'Tell me, Inglese, before I kill you. What made you think I was using a sling and not a handgun?'
'Skeletons!' I murmured. 'Skeletons I saw in England. Men killed by Roman soldiers or, at least, by Roman auxiliaries. The little holes in their skulls were like the wounds you inflicted on Lord Francesco and Preneste.' Enrico's eyes widened.
'Now, isn't life strange, Inglese? Everything goes in full circle. You saw the skeletons of your ancestors killed by men from Italy. And now you, an Englishman, are going to be killed by me.'
He turned sideways, adopting the classical pose of a duellist, dagger hand slightly up, blade pointed towards the ground. 'Inglese, goodbye!'
He moved as lithely as a cat, sword tip jabbing at my chest, swinging round with his long dagger. I jumped backwards, moved forward, lunging at his throat. Enrico, using sword and dagger, beat off my attack, then we closed again. Our blades seemed like glittering arcs of light. I became desperate. He was so fast, so skilful, hardly moving. He would launch an attack at my chest then, suddenly, his sword was aiming at my throat, my groin or my leg. My arms flailed like a windmill and the sweat broke out on my body. He withdrew, breathing a little heavily, and then we began again. At first I panicked, but the slap of our feet against the floor, the rhythmic clashing of our blades, the deadly intent and the deep urge to survive calmed my mind. At the same time the skills my Portuguese duelling master had taught me made themselves felt. No longer did I retreat but, turning sideways, managed to parry his blows and, on one occasion, even nicked him slightly on the arm. He stepped back, shaking his sword arm and smiling. He returned, swift as a striking adder.
'You are good, Inglese,' Enrico breathed. 'But do not grieve, you and your dwarf woman will soon be together again.'
As God is my witness, I don't know whether it was his words or that awful smirk on his ugly face, but I broke all the rules of duelling. We drew apart, he was flexing his sword again and I played a trick learnt in the dingy alleyways of London. I changed sword and dagger from hand to hand. He moved a little further back in preparation for this but, instead of closing, I grabbed my dagger by the hilt and flung it full at his chest. It took him deep, just beneath the heart. Enrico stared in stupefaction, mouth gaping, his sword slipped from his hands. He took a step forward.
I moved in and thrust my sword into his stomach beneath the rib cage.
'Get you to hell!' I hissed. 'And tell the Lord Satan I sent you there!'
I withdrew my sword and stepped back – a dying man could still be dangerous. Enrico had now dropped his dagger. His face contorted with pain as the blood flowed and bubbled out of his wounds. He looked up as if to say something, sighed and crumpled to the floor. I threw my sword and dagger to the ground and crouched, arms crossed, and gave full vent to the terrors seething within me. All I could do was stare at that evil man, watching the blood ooze around him. He was lying on his side. I went over and pulled my dagger out. There was an awful sucking sound. I threw it to the floor, staggered to my feet, went back to the table and drank a goblet of wine, faster than I had in many a day. I returned upstairs. Maria was lying on the bed, her little body covered. My master was beginning to stir. I was so exhausted, so terrified, that I just lay down beside him.
(Never mind the sniggers of my chaplain. Unless a man is truly evil and his soul has died, when you finish any duel your body trembles with a variety of emotions. You retch and vomit, run to the nearest jakes, get drunk! Or lie on a bed, your arms folded, till the terrors go away.)
Of course, I was not so fortunate as to lie long in peace. I must have lain for only a few minutes, watching the candle flame dance in the breeze coming through the open window, when I heard the sounds of horses and voices from the courtyard below. I just lay there. Whoever had come, well they were welcome to the nightmare I had been through. I heard fresh shouts and exclamations as the visitors discovered one corpse after another. Then there was the sound of feet pounding on the stairs, the door was flung open and Seraphino, the Master of the Eight, with his black-hooded police, swept into the room like some vision from hell. I groaned and swung my legs off the bed. The Master of the Eight waddled across. His soft face was wreathed in an air of concern, li
ke some genial uncle who has discovered a favourite nephew in distress. He stood over me, hands deep in the voluminous sleeves of his gown.
'Inglese, what have you done? The corpses below! Signor Enrico awash with his own blood!' I glared up at him. 'Piss off, you evil bastard!' I hissed. He struck me across the face. 'Piss off!' I repeated.
I got to my feet. He withdrew his hands from his sleeves and I felt the point of his thin stiletto prick my neck just below the chin. Frater Serpahino smiled benignly at me, though his eyes were two black, soulless holes. 'I could kill you on the spot!' he whispered.
'Do that,' I replied, 'and you really will have to answer to our king. I killed no one.' 'No one?' 'Except Master Enrico. He's responsible for all these deaths.' 'I don't think so.'
'I don't give a damn what you think!' I retorted. 'Enrico's the assassin, settling a blood feud which has been curdling for years. He drugged my master and tried to kill me. However, I am sure you know that. You've had this villa constantly guarded. You saw Enrico return and you watched my arrival. You could have intervened,' I continued, ignoring the prick of steel under my chin, 'but you chose not to. Why?' 'I don't really know. All I know, Englishman, is that some deadly game has been played out and I have one thought and one thought only. Will this game injure Florence? Will the city suffer?'
‘I think you should ask Cardinal Giulio de Medici that?' I replied.
Seraphino pursed his lips. 'You could be my guest again, Englishman. Those rats have not forgotten you.' 'Oh yes, how are your brothers?' I asked. The Master of the Eight smiled thinly.
'Amusing as ever, eh, Shallot?' He smacked his lips, blinked, and the dagger disappeared up his sleeve. 'Well, there are some unanswered questions and some gaps remain, but I can surmise, speculate, and one day a true picture will emerge.'
He looked down at my master and then back over his shoulder, speaking quickly to one of his companions. I don't know what was said, but my master was given something to drink, gently picked up and carried downstairs. A cart with horses already in the traces stood waiting. My master was laid comfortably in it, his back protected by a mattress filched from one of the chambers. I was told to collect our saddlebags. I did so, hurriedly following the Master of the Eight's instructions to take everything that was ours.